


Lemon Cakes and Wine

by The_Queen_In_The_North



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Anal Play, F/M, One Shot, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:21:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27346528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Queen_In_The_North/pseuds/The_Queen_In_The_North
Summary: Sansa Stark and Margaery Tyrell have a picnic inside the new rose gardens, accompanied by the king and his sworn shield. When Margaery picks up on the sexual tension between Sansa and Sandor Clegane, she quickly thinks of an excuse to give them some much needed alone time.
Relationships: Joffrey Baratheon/Margaery Tyrell, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Sansa Stark & Margaery Tyrell
Comments: 22
Kudos: 211





	Lemon Cakes and Wine

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while wired on an americano after being inspired by the song "Cherry" by Lana Del Rey. It is what it is, lol. Enjoy!

Margaery's rose garden was like something out of a dream, pure and quaint, tranquil and balmy, eliciting feelings that Sansa had not felt since she read the stories of fair maidens and gallant knights, amongst other, newer feelings — provocative feelings.

Down a meandering cobblestone path adjacent to Myrcella’s gardens outside the Red Keep, King Joffrey had the groundskeepers install a separate garden, one strictly for Margaery and Margaery alone. Sansa never thought she’d have the pleasure of taking a stroll throughout the charming, private garth full of a variety of fragrant herbs and flowers, but upon Margaery’s request to take her newest, dearest friend out for an afternoon picnic, Joffrey acceded, much to his displeasure. 

And, much to Sansa’s delight, the king brought along the man who evoked those same other, newer, provocative feelings.

Wearing matching lilac samite gowns that exposed their shoulders and revealed their cleavage, she and Margaery sat on a green sumptuous blanket embroidered with a golden rose — House Tyrell’s sigil. Joffrey would have _never_ allowed Sansa to own a blanket with her house’s sigil when they were betrothed, let alone carry it outside the Red Keep for all to see. But it was different with Margaery. He loved her in his own sick, twisted way, and Sansa pitied her new friend all the more for it.

Margaery brought along a wicker basket full of cherries and cream and peaches, and Sansa’s favorite, lemon cakes. Sansa was so elated by the sight, so immensely grateful for Margaery’s thoughtfulness, that she squealed with delight and gave her the largest of hugs. 

Joffrey snickered. When Sansa glanced over at the massive wall of ivy where he stood, she found that he was giving them a lewd stare and whispering something to the Hound, doubtlessly some pervy string of words. And all the while, Sandor Clegane silently regarded her with a gleam in his eye, evoking those other, newer, provocative feelings once again.

Sansa blushed and looked away.

While she and Margaery Tyrell grazed on lemon cakes and fruit dipped into a bowl of cream, Joffrey swung around his sword like an total fool, as if he hoped to impress them with his nonexistent skills. Ignoring him the best that she could manage, Sansa admired the birds tweeting their mellifluous tunes overhead, and the butterflies with gossamer wings dancing above the hedges. _It’s all so beautiful,_ she thought, staring at the Hound while dipping a cherry into a bowl of cream. As Sansa slowly began to lick the confection with her tongue, they exchanged a glance, and Sandor Clegane stood a little straighter.

“Would you like another?” asked Margaery, as she handed her a second lemon cake.

“Yes,” said Sansa, returning the twinkling smile, “thank you.”

“You’re one lemon cake away from spilling out your dress,” Joffrey bleated. He sliced his steel through a lavender bush and smiled, smug and awful, once the petals fell lifelessly onto the walkway. “I pity the man who weds you. You’re like to suffocate him in the marriage bed.”

Sansa glared at him, though he was too busy mutilating the botany to notice. _The only person becoming fleshy around this castle is your mother,_ she desperately wanted to say. Instead, she bit her tongue, else Joffrey’s daily threat of having Ser Ilyn cut it out might come to fruition.

“My beloved king, that was unkind,” Margaery said, sweetly. “Lady Sansa has a lovely figure.”

Despite the future queen’s sentiment, Joffrey ended his absurd swordplay and wiped the sweat from his brow, sneering. “What say you, dog? Does my betrothed have the right of it? Does Lady Sansa have a _lovely figure_?”

Sansa immediately lowered her eyes and picked nervously at the lemon cake in her lap, wishing she could turn into one of the butterflies in the garden and flitter away. 

Inside the ethereal rose garden, even the Hound’s rasping voice sounded gentler when he said, “Aye, the lady does, Your Grace.”

Her heart all but bursted inside her chest. Once Sansa slowly lifted her eyes, she saw that Sandor Clegane’s expression was completely inscrutable, though there was something about his gaze that stimulated her to sit up a bit taller.

Joffrey snorted a mirthless laugh. “Of course you’d say that, dog. You’re certainly in no position to criticize another’s appearance.”

Before Sansa would gladly sacrifice her tongue to tell Joffrey to shut his wormy lips, Margaery said, “Your Grace, shall we continue our stroll, just you and I? I’d love to visit the fountain honoring your unmatched valor in the Battle of the Blackwater. Perhaps we can even go for a little swim?”

The king’s grimace transitioned into a salacious grin. “Yes, let’s. Dog, ensure that Lady Sansa doesn’t eat all of my betrothed’s food while we are gone. If she does, you have my permission to gag her until she spits it back up.”

Margaery leaned over to plant a kiss on her cheek, then whispered into her ear, “Have fun.”

Sansa stared at her as she pulled away, bewildered. “What?”

Without another word, Margaery rose from the blanket wearing a knowing smile and took Joffrey’s arm, sauntering away down the cobblestone path.

Together and alone with Sandor Clegane at last, and yet, Sansa had never felt more demure. All those days and nights she spent fantasizing racy encounters with him inside her head had gone to waste, unable to do anything besides stare at the lemon cake in her lap and count the crumbs. 

He was looking at her, she knew. Not just looking, but watching, staring, studying her as if she was another vibrant rose swaying along with the velvety breeze. Suddenly she worried that she was blinking too much, then feared he would be able to see that she was breathing heavily due to her breasts conspicuously rising and falling. 

Off in the distance, a bird began to chirp a pretty little song. Sansa envied that bird.

Staring at the broken lemon cake in her lap kindled an idea. _It’s only courteous,_ she thought, as she mustered up the courage to ask the question. _And it will start a conversation...or so I hope._

Sansa lifted her eyes and softly said, “Would you like a lemon cake?”

The burned side of the Hound’s mouth twitched. It might have even been a smile. “Are you offering me your lemon cake?”

A flush of color burned her cheeks. “I…well, I thought you might want to—”

“Eat your lemon cake?” 

_Oh, gods be good,_ she thought, instinctively squeezing her thighs together. _My mind is as crude as Joffrey’s._ Untrusting of what might come out of her mouth, Sansa nodded in response.

The Hound looked at her for quite some time before drawing nearer with heavy, clanking steps. “I’ll have a bite of your lemon cake, little bird, so long as you let me taste your peach and cherries, too.”

No butterfly’s wings could surpass the cadence of Sansa’s fluttering heart in that moment.

He hunkered down beside her, sitting close enough for his white woolen Kingsguard cloak to drift into her lap upon a gentle gust of wind. Enamored by the sight of it perched on her thigh, Sansa held out the lemon cake to him in her open, quivering palm, never meeting his gaze.

“Here you are,” she squeaked.

The cloak slid out of her lap like a pale serpent. Sansa lifted her face and watched as he leaned back on his hands and tilted his head towards the sun that was veiled by puffy clouds. While his eyes were closed, Sansa took advantage and beheld the black flesh on the left side of his face that had been marred by fire. She eyed the hint of bone that was visible along his jawline, then peered at the oozing wetness glistening inside the crevices of his scars. Sandor Clegane was, without a doubt, the most beautiful sight inside the rose garden. 

She released a wistful sigh and thought, _How could I have ever been frightened of him?_

With his eyes still shut, the Hound smiled to himself, as if he could hear her thoughts. “Go on and feed me your lemon cake, little bird.”

“Oh, wouldn't you rather just take it?” Sansa asked, licking her lips as she traced his hooked nose with her eyes.

“No, I’d rather you give it to me.”

Nothing could convince her that they were only speaking of lemon cakes. Sansa pinched the dainty treat between two jittery fingers and guided it to his lips. As he bit down, taking half the lemon cake into his mouth, she found herself parting her lips open along with him. When the Hound looked at her out of the corner of his eye, Sansa shut her mouth, but it was too late — he noticed, and proceeded to chew with a shadow of a smirk. 

Knowing her cheeks would be as sanguine as the surrounding roses, Sansa quickly turned the other way and perused through the basket. 

“You have a tasty lemon cake, little bird,” the Hound said, followed by the sound of him fidgeting with his armor. “Deserves to be paired with my wine.” Sansa snapped her head around and discovered that he was holding a leather flask. After he took a long swig from it, he added, “Open your mouth, girl.”

Her eyes grew wide. “J-Joffrey doesn’t allow me to drink,” she stammered. “If he—”

Sansa’s explanation was cut short by a muscled hand seizing her jaw, but not painfully so. Using his other hand, the Hound placed the spout of the wineskin onto her bottom lip and tipped her head back. Their eyes locked as the dry white wine slowly started to fill her mouth. Not one of Sansa’s fantasized encounters was as erotic as his simple, dark, silent stare. 

The strong hand holding her jaw slid down and wrapped around her neck. Once her mouth was full of the wine, the Hound lowered the flask and said, “Swallow.”

Lost in those grey piercing eyes, Sansa hesitated, until he slowly ran his gloved thumb down the middle of her throat. One word came to her mind upon the sensation: dangerous. Aroused in every sense of the word, Sansa did as she was bid, relishing the wavelike manner her throat pressed against his palm. The Hound liked it too, she knew for certain, once he uttered a growl.

The patch of clouds drifted overhead, unveiling the golden afternoon sun. Its splendor forced them to squint, and broke their intense gaze. Initially that was vexing, but once her eyes adjusted, Sansa revelled in the way the Hound’s breastplate glinted attractively in the sunlight. 

“Your peach, little bird,” he said in a husky voice, awaking her from her daze. “Let’s see it.”

In her fantastical daydreams, Sansa would have lifted up her gown and opened her legs wide for him. But in reality, she reached into the wicker basket and handed him a small, round, golden peach. The Hound shook his head, but Sansa already knew what he wanted her to do. She placed it to his lips and refrained from opening her mouth as he bit into it. The crisp crunch that followed rose gooseprickles on her skin. And as she watched the juice drip down his scarred chin, her nipples hardened inside her bodice.

Although she would have sooner licked the juices off him, Sansa picked up a white linen cloth beside her and dabbed it alongside his mouth.

The Hound caught her wrist. “Your cherries,” he growled.

Lost for words and short of breath, Sansa blindly scrabbled for the cherries with the hand not in his tight clutches, staring into his eyes all the while. She picked one up and placed it to the side where his lips would be had they not been burned off. Once the tip of her index finger skimmed across his scars, her modesty was being held together by a single string.

Sansa pushed the cherry gingerly into his mouth. He nipped her finger as he bit down, causing her to gasp abruptly. “Oh!” 

The Hound’s eyes flashed. All at once, he released her wrist and removed both gloves. Upon spitting the cherry pit into the grass, he said, “Your turn.” His dark hair grazed her face as he reached across her lap for the bowl of cream. With one finger, Sandor scooped up a large dollop and brought it to her mouth. “Open up, little bird.”

Without conscious thought, she did, closing her eyes and opening her mouth far wider than what was necessary. Sansa’s hands clutched her skirts as she felt his thick finger place itself on her tongue. She tasted the sweetness of the cream, along with the saltiness of his skin.

No lemon cake had ever tasted so divine. 

Listening to the indulgent instincts that awoke inside Margaery’s garden, Sansa closed her lips around his finger and rolled her tongue around it to collect the delicacy. When he made no effort to remove it afterwards, Sansa opened her eyes. 

The drifting clouds blanketed the sun once again, making their little haven slightly darker. The Hound stared at her with his jaw clenched, eyes blazing, and left his finger there a moment longer before slowly pulling it out. By that point, Sansa’s hands were sweating in her lap, and a second damp sensation presented itself inside her smallclothes. In silence, Sandor reached over and collected another glob of fresh cream using two of his fingers instead of the one. Once they were inside her mouth, Sansa hollowed her cheeks and sucked on the two fingers while swirling her tongue around. Her eyes weren’t open, but she thought she heard him curse. Sandor pulled out his fingers against the resistance of her suck, then dipped them back into the bowl. Sansa had her mouth open and ready for him, craving the taste of his skin more than the white treat. That time, he placed his fingers onto her tongue, then slid them back an inch, and then another, until his fingers were all but down her throat. 

And somehow, Sansa didn’t gag, not once. 

“Bloody fucking hell,” she heard him mutter aloud, though she was sure he meant to keep that thought to himself. His rough voice drew her in like a lullaby. The Hound slid out his fingers and said, “Look at me, girl.”

Sansa’s eyes fluttered open, as if she had been dreaming. While she was swallowing the cream still left on her tongue, the Hound set the bowl into her lap.

“Give some to me.”

She smiled coyly, and scooped it up with her finger.

The Hound quickly added, “Without your finger.”

Sansa knitted her brow. “But, how am I…” 

_Oh,_ she thought, feeling her smallclothes moisten. _Oh gods._ Praying she did not interpret his meaning incorrectly, Sansa spread the cream evenly over her lips and felt that last string holding her modesty together snap.

The Hound pounced on her like some feral beast, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her into his lap. Their mouths instantly interlocked, as if they had it practiced. The tantalizing sensation of kissing lips not all there along with the provocative touch of his scars brushing against her cheek provoked Sansa to wrap her arms tightly around his neck, and press her breasts against his rigid breastplate. Sandor growled into her mouth, licking the cream from her lips before sweeping his tongue along the inside of her cheeks. He tasted like lemons and peaches, cherries and wine. The more she had of him, the more she wanted; it was equal parts stimulating and terrifying.

Their tongues danced much like the butterflies inside the gardens, lively and without a care in the world. His hands explored her body while hers cupped either side of his face. The burned flesh felt as pleasant as silk on her fingers. Sansa brushed her thumb over the crevices, causing the both of them to moan far too freely. 

They stopped in unison. Somehow they had forgotten they were not the only two inside the garden. Waiting and listening with their lips barely touching, Sansa could hear water splashing far off in the distance, followed by the sound of Margaery giggling.

“They’ll be awhile,” the Hound whispered. 

Within her next breath, Sansa was lying on her back with her gown no longer covering her legs. All she wore underneath was silken smallclothes, and they were being pulled down past her knees.

With a gasp, Sansa said, “Wait!”

Sandor stopped in that instant. He lifted his eyes from her sex and looked at her, full of dread. “Do you not want me to?”

“No, I do!” she said at once, though she wasn’t quite sure what all that consisted of. “But, if Joffrey—”

Once he had her consent, the Hound didn't care to hear the rest. What happened next was a blur. Sandor snatched off her smallclothes, laid flat on his stomach, and positioned his face between her thighs. Sansa lifted her head and watched as he swept his fingers through the mound of cream that had spilled beside her on the blanket. As the cool substance was being spread over every inch of her folds, Sansa tossed her head back and muffled a sharp cry of pleasure into her hands, and then another, far louder, once his wide tongue began to lick it up.

There was no combination of words to eloquently describe the sensation of Sandor Clegane tongue kissing her sex, sampling her as if she was another dainty treat brought along for the picnic. He kissed and licked, sucked and nipped, and each subsequent flick of his tongue made her moan a little deeper. Despite his firm grip on her thighs, he granted her enough control to circle her hips. The Hound encouraged her with moans of his own, and even muttered, “That’s it, little bird,” when her swiveling matched the rhythm of his tongue.

Just when she thought no other sensation could ever compete, one thick finger slipped inside.

“Oh Sandor,” she whimpered, almost in agony. He added a second finger, spreading open her chaste sex to create a sweet pain, then slipped the two in and out of her in a persistent rhythmic manner, never slowing the steady pace of his tongue on her firm nub. Her hands left her mouth and found her breasts, impulsively responding to the erotic pleasures she felt.

“Sandor,” she moaned again. Off in the distance, she could hear moans just as soft coming from where the fountain would be. _‘They’ll be awhile’,_ she remembered him saying. Hoping that would be true, Sansa reached into her bodice and pulled out her breasts, allowing them to soak up the sun as it broke through the clouds. She fondled them without shame, and was soon joined by the Hound. While his one hand pleasured her below, his other pleasured her above. Sansa bit her lip to keep herself from crying out, caressing the strong hand that groped her breasts. Once the sun hid behind another cloud, Sansa lifted her head and watched him. 

That was all it took. Her walls squeezed around his fingers, her head fell back against the blanket, and then she moaned, “Oh gods, I’m about to—” 

Her climax crashed over her like a wave, stealing away her senses for a fleeting moment before drowning her in the raunchiest rush of pleasure she had ever felt. Sansa gasped for air as she was coming down from her peak, mindlessly pushing his head away when the sensation became too much to bear.

But the Hound wouldn’t budge, nor would he quit, not until another minute had passed and Sansa was lying on the ground in a state of stupefaction. As she rested there, breathing erratically, a butterfly with wings patterned with iridescent tones of black and yellow alighted atop the wicker basket. _So beautiful,_ she thought, until she heard Joffrey moaning from afar. The butterfly flew away, and Sansa thought she might become sick.

Distracting her from her sudden queasiness, she felt Sandor guiding her feet back into her smallclothes.

Sansa sat up on her elbows. “What are you doing?”

The Hound looked as intoxicated as she felt. “Dressing a little bird.” He flipped her around, but rather than continue to slip on her smallclothes, he paused. 

Seconds later, Sandor Clegane was glazing her bottom with cream.

It was as titillating as it was ticklish. Sansa giggled into the blanket. “Oh gods, what are you doing?”

A sound so guttural escaped him that she could have mistaken him for a beast. “Eating your lemon cake,” he answered, then raked his teeth over one of her cheeks. 

She clutched tightly onto the blanket with both hands, suppressing the urge to squeal. Though his mouth had been pleasuring her sex only a minute ago, the sensation of the Hound lapping up the cream off her bottom was something utterly unique. He licked and bit, then kissed and squeezed, and to finish her off, spread her cheeks apart and ran his tongue up and down the middle. 

Almost delirious, Sansa bit down so hard on the blanket that she was certain the stitching would be ruined. 

Sandor spanked either side of her bottom before sliding up her smallclothes and turning her back around. He sat back on his knees and slowly wiped his mouth with one hand. “You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted, little bird.”

Her eyes felt heavy, but not from fatigue. Whatever he had just done to her, Sansa’s desires reawoke with a vengeance, and thoughts more crude than any she had conjured up in the past were begging to be made into a reality. Sansa listened. There was still moaning in the distance, and that was all she needed to hear.

Sansa didn’t know how to remove armor, but she tossed herself at him and fidgeted with the clasps and buckles all the same. 

The Hound took her arm and snorted. “What do you think you’re doing, girl?”

She fidgeted some more, but it was no good. The only thing fussing with his breastplate had done was two break two of her nails. “Take this stupid thing off,” she said, smacking the dark steel with a fist. If she was being honest, she loved his armor, particularly how it made her feel between her legs to see him in it. But just then, Sansa wanted to see more of him. Sansa _needed_ to. 

He looked at her, bemused. “You don’t owe me anything, little bird.”

Sansa was growing ever impatient, and time was running out. “I want to taste you,” the candid words fell from her lips. “ _Please_.”

He stared at her in silence, but then she realized he was only listening. The faint grunts of Joffrey Baratheon were still audible, though drowned out by the birds chirping inside the garden. With all the dexterity in the world, the Hound removed his sword belt and tossed it to the side. Apparently, struggling to remove his breastplate had been in vain. Sandor rose to his feet and hastily freed himself from his breeches without needing to unclasp a single buckle.

She sat on her knees and observed him in awe. 

The Hound’s manhood jutted outward, intimidatingly long and thick. Although she had never been intimate with a man, she had seen plenty of them nude in court. Oftentimes as a punishment for speaking ill of him, Joffrey would have his Kingsguard strip commoners of their clothes before having them beaten and flogged. And Joffrey, being the sadistic monster that he was, would force Sansa to watch, else he’d threaten to have the same done to her. She had seen many men as the gods made them, but what stood before her was unlike anything her eyes had ever witnessed. 

It terrified her. It enthralled her.

Sansa took it in her hand, eliciting a throaty groan from the man towering above her. It was warmer than she anticipated, and softer, too, though trying to wrap her fingers around it felt equivalent to holding a pillar of wood. Her hand looked as small as a doll's in comparison; Sansa couldn’t get enough of the sight. If having two of his fingers inside her sex made her feel as if she was being stretched open, she could scarcely imagine what his cock might feel like burying itself inside her.

The thought was daunting, but more so, it was deliciously tempting.

Amateurishly, Sansa set up taller on her knees and slid her hand down until she reached the base where his coarse dark hair grew, then slid her hand back up. Despite having no experience, nor any proper instruction, Sandor appeared and sounded thoroughly pleased. 

Fiercely eager to return the favor, she scooped up what was left of the spilled cream on the blanket and placed it onto his shaft. Sansa then wrapped her hand around his girth and stroked his cock tenderly to disperse it evenly onto his skin. With the addition of the slippery cream, her hand glided up and down his cock smoothly. 

His moans emboldened her. Sansa looked up at him, salivating.

The sun behind him made it difficult to see his face, but Sansa could discern that it was taut and twisted. Almost in a begging manner, the Hound said, “Put your mouth on it.”

It was obvious then: Sandor Clegane was about to finish in her hand. She smiled to herself, relishing in her newfound sexual confidence, then leaned forward with her jaw wide open.

He tasted better than any lemon cake, sweeter than the ripest of peaches and cherries. The cream itself was delightful, but that was not what made her mouth continue to salivate as she steadily bobbed her head back and forth on his cock. The Hound had an earthy taste to him, masculine and comforting. An amateur she was, a maiden, yet nothing about that moment felt awkward or forced. Perhaps with any other man it would have, but not with the Hound. Those innate senses told her what to do and, in that moment, urged her to swirl her tongue around his shaft while sucking him.

Cursing and moaning, Sandor took a fistful of her hair and manually moved her head forward and back. The tip of his length poked the back of her throat every time, but Sansa never felt the urge to gag, just like she hadn’t when he teased her with his fingers. That prompted him to go deeper, which caused him to moan louder. It would be a miracle if they finished without being caught, though Sansa found it impossible to pay any mind to that while listening to the harmonious curses inside the garden, as sweet to her ears as were the singing birds. 

Just as her jaw was becoming fatigued by his size, it came. Preceded by several vicious grunts, Sandor’s warm seed spilled deep inside her mouth, glazing the back of her throat. Much like he had not stopped pleasuring her upon her peak, Sansa didn’t either, and continued to suck until the last of his seed was spent. Though it had little taste, it was enough to make Sansa pine for more as soon as she swallowed the last drop. The Hound plopped down onto the blanket afterwards and caught his breath with one hand resting on her thigh. 

“Little bird…” He found his wineskin and guzzled it down. When he passed it to her, she gently pushed it away.

“You taste better than the wine,” said Sansa, then placed a single kiss on his scarred cheek. 

Sandor abruptly pulled her in closer until their foreheads touched. He smelled of cream and white wine, of her sex and peaches, with just a hint of cherry and sweat. Sansa inhaled deeply and filled her lungs with the sweet fragrances. 

“And you taste better than any bloody lemon cake.”

Their tongue kissing ended once they heard Margaery coughing, and listened as the sound grew nearer. 

Within mere seconds, the Hound laced his breeches, donned his swordbelt, and stood on the opposite side of the garden while Sansa tucked her breasts back into her bodice and forked her fingers through her hair. She cleaned up what she could on the blanket, tossing the bowl and fruit into the basket, then straightened it out with one quick tug. Margaery coughed again, much closer that time, and Sansa quickly sat down and smoothed out her skirts.

Joffrey’s golden hair was disheveled underneath his crown as he strolled into the rose garden with Margaery on his arm. 

He immediately scowled at her. “Did my dog have to come over there and gag you?”

“No, Your Grace, he didn’t gag me,” Sansa said, praying that her amusement did not show on her face. She and Margaery exchanged a glance, and the future queen was stifling her own smile.

“You only seem to behave when my dog is around,” Joffrey grumbled. 

“He scares me, Your Grace,” she lied. Sansa avoided the Hound’s stare, else she might dissolve into a fit of laughter. 

The king’s wormy lips turned up in a smirk. “Good. Now get up. I promised my betrothed we’d return on the morrow. And since you only behave around my dog, he’s coming with us. In fact, from now on, wherever you go, he goes.”

“Oh no,” Sansa sighed, though she would have sooner squealed with glee. 

Joffrey stood there, satisfied with himself, then led Margaery down the cobblestone path. “Dog, ensure that Lady Sansa picks everything up, then escort her to her chambers.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sandor responded, convincingly stoic. 

Once left alone inside the serene rose garden where butterflies fluttered and birds chirped their sweet songs, Sansa looked at the Hound in a state of felicity and said, “Would you like another lemon cake?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
>  **Connect with me on** [Tumblr!](https://thequeen--in--thenorth.tumblr.com/)


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